Uneraseable Memories
by Shadow Mage Evelyn
Summary: Edward Elric wouldn’t be able to recall those nights immediately following his prosthetics surgery. His father, however, would never forget. HOHENHEIM AND EDWARD DRABBLE


**Nope, I'm not dead yet. This story has been a long time in coming, and I finally finished it.**

**UNERASEABLE MEMORIES**

Edward Elric wouldn't be able to recall those nights immediately following his prosthetics surgery. He wouldn't recall how weak or heavy his body had felt; wouldn't remember the high fevers that had caused his fragile frame to shiver and shake with a terrible tremor. He would never remember all the tears he'd shed while deliriously crying out in his sleep every night. He would forget all the times he'd been violently ill, unable to keep food or water in his body, driving his feverish form to the edge of Death's doorway and nearly taking the final plunge had it not been for the efforts of concerned doctors. He would forget all of those days altogether, his mind never fully functioning and therefore unable to record them correctly.

His father, however, would never forget.

Hohenheim would never forget how frail and small the boy had looked swaddled in blankets and tangled in the life-giving tubes and wires. Hohenheim remembered that one tube was for measuring the boy's steady heartbeat; another to help him breathe easier; yet another to drip morphine into his body to ease the pain and the fever; yet still another that pumped much needed nutrients into his blood. There were dozens of other wires and tubes that Hohenheim didn't know the purpose of, but he trusted that they were there to help.

He wouldn't forget how hot the boy's flesh was under his hand as he pushed back sweat-soaked bangs. The boy's body trembled as if cold and no amount of blankets could stop the shaking. It was torture; all those days spent waiting for the fever to subside. Some days it would dip promisingly low, only to spike up dangerously the next. All the while the boy huddled within the blankets, shivering in the midst of a raging inferno that would have been the death of him if the doctors hadn't been there to monitor it. After awhile, the fever subsided to a more manageable degree and soon all the tubes and wires were removed and taken away. The boy was keeping food and water down finally, but the hospital didn't want him to leave just yet, fearing a relapse, and Hohenheim was of like mind, having no desire to go anywhere until his son was completely better.

But it seemed that the worst had yet to come. Hohenheim could bear the high fevers, could bear the sight of those tubes and needles, but he would never be able to erase the sound of his son's broken and rasping voice begging for deliverance from the nightmares. He could never eradicate from his memory the way the boy would jerk awake and sob uncontrollably for several minutes before sliding back down into some hellish dark nightmare where not even his screams could wake him up. Hohenheim watched it all in turmoil from his chair at the bedside, until he finally could bear no more and lifted that pale, shivering, and frail form into his arms, making his way back to the rocking chair by the window. He would sit for hours in that chair, holding Edward securely in his arms while the boy cried and cried against his chest until eventually the tears wore him out and he fell back asleep, slumped weakly against his father's chest.

It had been years since Hohenheim had last been able to hold his son in his arms, had last been able to soothe the tears and make the nightmares go away. Edward had been only a baby at that time, so tiny and fragile, so amazingly wonderful that Hohenheim could do no more than love him. Even now, Hohenheim would never erase the memory as he felt that familiar pang in his chest, and could only wonder at how everything could have been so different if only he'd made a better choice. He would remember how, in his arms, Edward would mutter sleepy words to himself Hohenheim couldn't hear, but Hohenheim never cared, would just continue to hold him, rocking back and forth, back and forth in the chair, rubbing the boy's back in a soothing gesture and watching the night-painted hours slide by out the window.

Hohenheim would never forget how the boy looked while he was sleeping; how young and innocent he had looked in an oversized white hospital gown, wrapped loosely in a white cotton blanket, looking like some sleeping angel fallen straight from heaven. The boy smelled vaguely of blood, sweat, and vomit, but Hohenheim didn't mind. There had been times before when the boy had been just a baby when he had smelled the same, and had passed that smell to Hohenheim, who had learned not to mind the smell that had become a part of his very existence. It was the smell of his legacy, his life, the gift he would leave the behind him for the world.

He would never forget how his heart would go out to the boy during those nights when he found the boy's left hand knotted in his shirt, clutching it in a death grip, as if afraid his father would leave him and he'd be all alone again, alone to face the nightmares. How many nights had Hohenheim spent with his oldest baby, tied down to this boy all because of that tiny hand gripping his shirt front, afraid to let go and be left alone for an instant, just in case the monsters might return for him. How many times his heart had been won over by that small gesture, how immobile his feet and legs would become. How many nights he had fallen asleep in chairs like this one, at bedsides long since turned to ash, just holding his son and protecting him long into the night from anything that might cause him harm. This time was no different; no matter how his legs might ache and whine at him; no matter how his arms might complain for the weight, Hohenheim would not be moved. The monsters were still out there, and he would remain a steadfast guardian against them, would guard this child, his child, with everything he had within him.

Hohenheim would always remember, too, how easily the boy had folded into his arms; how the shadows had lined his face; how his hair had fallen and clung about his sweat-soaked face and shoulders in a slightly unkempt golden mess. He remembered how hopeful he was when the fever died down and how fervently he'd prayed that this would all pass; that tomorrow would be better and that his son would finally be able to rest. And he remembered how tomorrow _was_ better, and how the tomorrow after _that_ was better, and the tomorrow after that, and the tomorrow after that…until finally, Hohenheim could look at his son standing beside him, healthy and strong, with a fire burning brightly in his far-seeing golden eyes and a desire to test the limit of the pain these new prosthetic limbs would cause him.

And there was plenty of pain to be had; Hohenheim would always remember the pain. He would remember that first day with that first painful step forward. He'd remember the way the boy's face had contorted in an expression caught somewhere between the agony of defeat and the gritted jaw of determination. He remembered the boy's stubbornness, his inability to give up and sit down to rest. The boy pushed himself to the limits of his endurance, and when he finally slumped down into the wheelchair, there were tears in his eyes, but they couldn't dim that burning will to get up and do it all over again tomorrow. Hohenheim remembered that once there had been a nasty fall, one that had left the boy sitting on the floor in tears, punching at the tile with his good hand and spitting out every curse word known to man. One of the doctors had moved to help the boy, but Hohenheim held him back, knowing that Edward would never forgive himself if he didn't get back up on his own. And after a few moments and a few more frustrated tears, Edward's jaw clenched fixedly and he forced himself painfully to his feet and shakily started forward again.

Hohenheim would never ever forget how bright and brilliant the boy's smile had been when he was finally able to let go of the crutch and walk—albeit unsteadily—across the room on his own; he'd never forget how big the same smile had grown when the boy finally picked an apple up off the table without any assistance, gleeful at the way the prosthetic fingers were finally bending to his will. The sun had been shining brightly the day the two walked out of the hospital, side by side, Edward's gait so easy and steady one never would have guessed at the truth. Hohenheim had been there when they'd visited the outpatient clinic in Munich for the first time to get the covering that would further disguise the prosthetics and help the boy feel whole again. But even then, Hohenheim could remember the look of that telltale sparkle of determination, and knew that Edward was not yet finished; that he would not yet rest until he'd tested the limits of this new and strange world and found a way back to his home.

Hohenheim remembered the way his son's back had looked that day he had departed for Doctor Oberth's. He remembered how proud he had been to see the strength in those shoulders, recalling how weak and burdened they had been only a few months prior. He remembered not crying as he realized that his son was walking out of his life, but instead smiling, because he remembered a time when his son couldn't walk, when he'd laid trembling and sobbing in his father's arms like a newborn babe, wracked with fever and illness and just barely hanging on to life. He remembered the grateful smile the boy—no! the young man—had given him as he'd turned, and the father rested easy, knowing that somehow, someway, the son was going to be just fine. There was no resentment towards his son's departure, only pride. The fledgling's time had come to finally fly the coop for good, and Hohenheim could never hold that against him. He'd stood in the doorway, watching the shrinking silhouette of Edward's back against the horizon, committing and burning the memories into his heart so that, while he would always remember, his son could finally forget.


End file.
